The American Student
by MuschKa
Summary: Things are as ever in Baker Street: Sherlock is bored, and John is doing the shopping. That is, until an American billionaire engages the world's only consultant detective in order to find his missing girlfriend. John is sent on a journey around the world, but what he will discover is much more than just one missing lady. - Sorry for any mistakes, English is not my first language.


I recount this case not for its value as a criminal investigation – for the mystery was nearly non-existent, and a crime not actually committed – but for the light it sheds on the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes, and for the conclusion it brings to certain previous events.

The episode I am about to disclose took place about two months after our return from the horrors of Baskerville and just a few weeks before Nemesis re-entered our lives in the body and mind of Jim Moriarty. I had been out to buy some milk, stopped for a coffee at Speedy's and spent some more minutes chatting to Mrs Hudson before going up to the flat where I found Sherlock Holmes standing at the window, looking out thoughtfully on Baker Street, his violin hanging somehow forgotten from his left hand.

"Composing?" I asked.

"You'll be needing your passport," he said without even turning round. "Then better pack and get a cab. There's a first class ticket for you to be collected at the British Airways desk at Heathrow's Terminal 5 for the 3.10pm flight to Seattle."

Sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes had made me get accustomed to all sorts of surprises – usually unpleasant ones involving the fridge – but I have to admit that this one was extraordinary, even by his standards.

"I'm flying where?" I said, just in case I had been mistaken.

"Seattle. Have you gone hard of hearing?"

"No, I haven't, it's just…"

"Well, I can hardly go myself, can I? The Americans wouldn't let me in, and even if they did, I'd have a bunch of revengeful CIA agents on my heels the moment my name was fed into the immigration computer." Considering the incident with the CIA and Mrs Hudson's bins I couldn't deny that. "It's just… I'm on a date tonight. Trying for a second chance with Sarah…"

"You might find consolation in the fact that the case is about finding a young lady."

"Oh?"

"Some billionaire's girl friend. No foul play probably, no crime. The lady has left the gentleman without giving a forwarding address. He's concerned about her safety and prepared to pay a considerable sum of money in order to relocate her."

"Maybe she doesn't want to be… relocated?"

"We'll leave that to her when we find her." One of those seldom happy smiles brightened up Sherlock's face. "Skype-hunting a missing person from a distance of five thousand miles! That's going to be fun!"

Three hours later I was enjoying the luxury of a first class flight deck, and a further ten hours saw me meeting a person called Taylor whose resemblance to the CIA agents of my acquaintance had quite a disturbing effect on me. Taylor, it turned out, was our client's security officer and chauffeur. However, he was not going to chauffeur me anywhere, but to guide me towards the helipad of Seattle Tacoma International Airport. A quick flight took us north across the city's skyscrapers to the landing platform of our client's penthouse. "Mr Grey is eager to meet you as soon as possible," Taylor pointed out. Ignoring Sherlock's constant text messages asking whether I had finally arrived, I had to agree that at least one of us couldn't wait to get started either. Leaving the elevator from the helipad, Taylor led me into a huge white foyer with very modern paintings on the walls. A large mahogany table with an all-white bunch of lilies marked the centre of this room in which the words "I'm rich. I'm stylish. I'm cool." could be heard shouted all over the place.

The chauffeur vanished behind a set of double doors, only to return moments later. "Mr Grey will see you now, Dr Watson." I entered a completely white living area dominated by an outsized U-shaped sofa. On the front wall, the view of the Seattle skyline replaced any necessity of wallpaper or paintings. Strangely enough, all I could think of was how Mrs Hudson would worry about keeping all this white white – and what a nice splash of colour my Union Jack cushion would add to the whiteness of the sofa.

Merely tucked away into the corner was a full-sized shiny black piano. A tall man stood next to it, turning his back to me and overlooking the sun-bathed city of Seattle while making an apparently very important phone call. "No, Friday it is… get Barney to call… No, I think we'll go for Detroit after all. Georgia's too damned hot. Have Andrea send me the schematics… Yes, tomorrow… Make sure it gets to Darfur in time."

When he turned round to face me, I was surprised at how young he was – at least for a billionaire. He had reddish hair and silvery eyes that seemed to change their shade whenever he moved his head. He was wearing a crisp white linen shirt and black trousers that were dangling dangerously low from his hips. "Dr Watson," he welcomed me, stretching out his hand. "I'm Christian Grey. I trust you had a good flight?"

"Excellent, Mr Grey. Thank you for the upgrade." His handshake was good and strong.

"The least I could do. I would have hired a Lear jet, but your partner seems to know flight schedules by heart and insisted on British Airways."

"Sherlock Holmes is not my partner, he's my…"

"Anyway, let's get down to business." Grey motioned me to the outsized sofa. While I started the notebook and the online connection, he continued: "Your partner has put you into the picture?"

"I understand we are looking for your former girlfriend who has vanished into the blue. You don't believe in a crime, but you are concerned about her safety."

"Sums it up quite nicely. – This is her." Grey opened a manila folder and handed me the photograph of a surprisingly plain looking girl of about twenty years. There was nothing glamorous about her, nothing to remember her by, her most prominent feature being a curly mass of brown hair. She was a nice girl. As a billionaire's ex-girlfriend on the run, she was a little bit of a disappointment. "Miss Anastasia Rose Steele," Grey explained. "Former student of English literature. Was about to start an internship at a Seattle publishing company."

"I see," I said, though I didn't see anything at all. Thankfully, the online connection had finally started, and finding first our living room at 221B and then Sherlock's face on the screen was surprisingly comforting. It was about two o'clock at night in London, so he was excused for wearing nothing more than his bed sheet, the case being a "three" at maximum anyway.

"Tell me everything I need to know," Sherlock ordered without further preliminaries. "Don't be boring."

"As I said, Miss Steele is gone missing. We had a little row three days ago after which she left. She's been back to the flat she shares with a friend, but after that she hasn't been seen. Hasn't been in touch with anyone either."

"How do you know?"

"I checked with Katherine. That's her flat-mate. And with her mother."

"And what makes you so very sure that she hasn't done anything to herself?"

"She's not the type. And she's the one who walked out on me. Apparently told Katherine that she needed a change of environment."

"And you've been in a relationship for how long?"

"Little more than two weeks."

I gasped, and so did Sherlock. "Mr Grey, I'm not the romantic expert amongst us, I leave that part to John Watson, but is it possible that after two weeks of being with you, Miss Steele simply saw no further future in your relationship, and that she, realizing you might harass her with some billionaire super power, decided to make a clean cut and leave no trace?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Well, there is some delicacy in the matter." Our client had blushed and patted the black folder from which he had taken the photograph. "I'm listening," Sherlock said. So was I, hoping that the delicacy would justify me flying first class around the world.

"I had asked Miss Steele to sign a contract."

"Contract," Sherlock repeated. "How's that for romance, John?"

"A contract regarding her… duties. Her duties towards me. Towards me as her Master."

"Master?" That was me. Sherlock, on screen, looked perfectly calm. Grey, on the sofa, looked a little uncomfortable.

"I indulge in… a sort of role play. Miss Steele was very innocent and completely inexperienced when we first met. I have every reason to believe that my behaviour… my desires drove her away. But her well-being has always been my first priority, and even if she doesn't want to have anything to do with me now, I do want to make sure that she is OK."

"This role play," Sherlock said, still outwardly calm, "does that involve Miss Steele perform certain acts of submission while allowing you to exert your power as master by punishing her?"

A deep scarlet red covered Grey's face. "Yes."

"Now that rings a bell, doesn't it, John?" Indeed it did, a bell I had for a long time presumed silenced.

"Excellent," I heard Sherlock say. "We'll find that girl friend of yours and…"

"Sherlock, can I have a word?"

"Certainly."

"In private."

"I'll show you to the study." Grey, obviously grateful for not being the centre of attention anymore, led me across the living area to an adjoining office with an equally stunning view across the city . I put the notebook down on the desk, waited for our client to leave the room and started to talk to Sherlock in earnest. "We cannot do this."

"Why not? I thought it's exactly your cup of tea. It's dangerous, it's forbidden, it's romantic…"

"Sherlock! This man probably scared the hell out of the poor girl! She's so much afraid that she's broken off contact with her mother and her flat mate! We cannot help him find her, clearly, we cannot."

"You're over-dramatizing things, as always, John. The man's highly disturbed and had a difficult childhood…"

"Did he? How do we know that?"

"Look at the way he's wearing his trousers. That's ridiculous for a grown up man." "Right," I said. "So what do we make of a grown up man who's wearing a sheet for tea at Buckingham Palace?"

"That's a different conversation. Listen John, tomorrow I want you to go to that flat and interview the flat mate. I want to see Miss Steele's room."

"And you're absolutely sure that your interest in this case does not have anything to do with memories of a certain mistress of punishment?"

"As I said before, you are the romantic amongst us."- and with this declaration, the screen went black. But even from a distance of nearly five thousand miles I knew that he would now open the drawer on his desk, as he usually did when he thought I wasn't looking, take out Irene Adler's camera phone and glance with a secret smile at the blank screen that had once displayed her heart.

Early the next morning, after a hearty breakfast in Mr Grey's state of the art stainless steel kitchen area, we started off to see Miss Steele's flat and her friend. Grey insisted on accompanying me, driving me personally in his Audi SUV. The friend turned out to be a beautiful green eyed blonde, the very counterpart of the mousy thing with the curly hair on the photograph, a very credible contender for the part of a young billionaire's glamorous girlfriend. However, her welcome of Mr Grey wasn't too encouraging: "You! That you dare show your face in here! It's your fault she's gone!"

"I'm sorry, Katherine, I know we've never been friends, but…"

"Friends! I doubt you have any… _friends_! – Who's that?"

"Dr John Watson," I introduced myself. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss…?"

"Kavanagh. Katherine Kavanagh. You're English?"

"Indeed I am. And this –" I opened up my notebook – "is my colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes." It was late afternoon in London, and on screen Sherlock, wearing a checkered dressing gown, offered the bright smile he used for making unsuspecting neighbours open up front doors for him. On Katherine Kavanagh, it didn't fail either. "But what are you doing here?" she asked, looking all the more beautiful because she was perplexed.

"Mr Holmes is a consultant detective. He's helping me find Anastasia," Grey explained.

"But if she doesn't want to be found?"

"We'll leave that to her," I interceded. "If we find her, and she wants to get in touch, fine. If she doesn't, we will not disclose her whereabouts. – Now, if you could show us to her room."

"I'll show _you_," she nodded to me, then turned to Grey. "But _you_ stay outside."

"Katherine, honestly, I only want to help…"

"You've done enough damage. You're a heartless, soulless psychopath, like all of your family…"

"Katherine, really..."

"I suggest you postpone your discussion until after I have seen Miss Steele's room. It's getting boring." Sherlock's voice, sharp and piercing as ever, made them stop.

"Better do as he says," I asked. "Otherwise he might take it out on our walls." Miss Kavanagh led me through the corridor to Anastasia Steele's room while Grey stayed outside. There was nothing special about the room – a double bed, a desk, some books, a wardrobe. Sherlock asked to have a look at the book shelf, the wardrobe and under the bed, and I moved the notebook accordingly. Just as he was peeking into the top drawer of her bedside table, I heard Mrs Hudson's voice chirping in. "Sherlock, dear, would you have a minute?"

"Not now, Mrs Hudson! I'm working!"

"Oh, is it John online? Are you all right, John?"

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson, thank you. – That's my housekeeper," I explained to Miss Kavanagh.

"I'm not your housekeeper, dear, I'm your landlady. Are they feeding you well? You look a bit slimmer."

"Mrs Hudson!"

"Oh sorry Sherlock, I forgot. You're working. When you've finished, would you mind popping down for a minute? I'd like you to meet the new lodger of the basement flat."

"You've found someone for 221C?" I asked.

"Yes, I have." Mrs Hudson smiled happily. I put the notebook down on Miss Steele's desk. "That's unexpected news, isn't it, Sherlock? We'll get a new neighbour. Should invite him for a drink when I'm back."

"John, if you don't mind spending time and money on drinking with a desperate person of meagre financial means, little self-esteem and a tiny IQ, you are free to do so, but don't expect me to join in."

"You haven't even met him!"

"Yes, but only the most desperate person with little to no self-respect and absolutely no money would bury themselve in that damp den. As to the IQ, that was a shot in the dark, but you'll find that lack of self esteem as well as of financial means and intelligence often go together."

"I'm so sorry," I turned to Miss Kavanagh who was staring at the screen with an open mouth (and still looking beautiful while doing so). "Seems we got a bit distracted. – Sherlock, anything you want to ask Miss Kavanagh about Anastasia?"

"No, I think I've got a clear picture now. I'll be able to relay the whereabouts of your friend within the next forty-eight hours, Miss Kavanagh. And congratulations on your assessment of Mr Grey's state of mind. You've obviously done your research – he _is_ a psychopath." The screen went black.

"What was that?" Miss Kavanagh had finally found her speech again.

"That's Sherlock Holmes. He's always like that. But don't worry, he'll find your friend."

She sat down on the bed, and I joined her on the chair. "I'm still not sure I want her to be found."

"You needn't worry. If she doesn't want to see Grey, no one can make her do it."

"That's not what I mean." She looked up to me, tearful, and still beautiful. "I'm not sure _I_ want to meet _her_ again. You know, she hasn't been the same person since she's been with him. It's… it's as if she's turned into a wild and strange creature. There's nothing left of the sweetness and simplicity I liked in her so much."

"And you're angry with Christian Grey because he made her that creature?"

"I am. But then again, perhaps it's not his fault at all. Perhaps it was in her all the time and he just happened to be the one to give her the wake-up kiss."

"I think you're a very good friend, Miss Kavanagh. And I do wish that you meet Anastasia again."

"Thank you, Dr Watson." She got up from the bed and walked over to the desk. Removing the notebook first, she lifted the writing pad and took out a couple of print outs. "I found these after she'd left. I know I'm not supposed to, but I had to go through her things, just hoping that I might get a clue. And I found this." Both pages contained bits and pieces of internet research on what the late Irene Adler would have described as "recreational scolding". On the second page, the name and address of the "Silhouette Club" in Seattle's International District appeared. The logo, the black silhouette of a woman equipped with a riding crop, left no doubts about the establishment's nature. _A wild and strange creature_ indeed – yet I couldn't see how that would fit with Christian Grey's description of a girl terrified by his desires. I thanked Katherine Kavanagh and promised to be in touch as soon as I had news.

Grey was waiting for me downstairs in the car. "So Katherine hasn't skinned you alive?"

"Not at all. I think she's a very good and caring person, albeit not too happy about her friend's choice of boy friend."

"Not too happy about any sort of boy friend, probably. She just split up with hers. My brother, by the way."

"Hold on – Katherine was your brother's girl friend?"

"Or lover. She ended it the day Anastasia left because she felt the relationship was lopsided."

"Lopsided?"

"Based on physical aspects only rather than intellectual."

"And could the same be said about your relationship with Miss Steele?"

Grey gave a wide smile. "Dr Watson, what do you think? I am a business tycoon managing a worldwide company network. Anastasia is a literature student specialized in English classics. What do you believe our evening talks were about?"

"How to feed the hungry in Darfur?" I guessed. He gave another smile. "Where do we go next?"

"You go managing your worldwide company network. I go buying souvenirs for Mrs Hudson. – That's my housekeeper, in case you're interested."

I never went buying souvenirs. I had a coffee and a sandwich in a café on the waterfront, enjoyed the warm sunshine and the fresh air coming from the sea, until I received a text message from Sherlock telling me that I would be going home on the 6:55pm direct flight to London. Then I decided to spend the remainder of my time by investigating the "Silhouette Club". It was a classic shot into the dark, yet with Sherlock gone silent on the other end of the investigation, there was not much else left for me to do. The taxi driver eyed me dubiously when I showed him the address. "You got an invitation?"

"I don't."

"They won't let you in. Not before dark, anyway. – You want me to wait?"

"No thanks." What was I thinking about – investigating a night club in the middle of the day? A few stairs led down to the basement entrance of what must have been one of Seattle's more ancient buildings. The red brick stones and sash windows would not have looked displaced in a good London suburb. The silhouette of the woman with a riding crop marked the door that was, surprisingly enough, opened promptly by a young female clad in a modern black business suit. I couldn't help staring at her for the impression of having met her before was overwhelmingly strong. "Dr Watson," she said. "We've been expecting you."

"Have you? How do you know my name?"

"We've met before, don't you remember?"

"Kate?" A voice came from one of the rooms leading off from the corridor, and that voice made my body shake and my vision blur. "Is it him?"

"What…" There she was, standing in the doorway, hair done up as ever, lipstick the shade of blood, wearing a tight black dress: Irene Adler. "You're dead," I uttered.

"No, I'm not."

"But you were beheaded by a terrorist cell in Karachi. Mycroft was thorough this time. It would have taken Sher…." Understanding dawned. "Oh my God. - It _did_ take Sherlock Holmes to fool him."

"Do come into my playroom, Doctor. We don't want to discuss this in the corridor, do we?"

Her playroom – to which I don't know how my feet carried me, for they were shaking just as the rest of my body – thankfully consisted of nothing more than some chairs and a sofa on which I tumbled immediately. Otherwise it looked very much the same as her drawing room in London. "You're alive."

"So you said."

"Does Sherlock… " Of course he knew. He'd saved her life, actually. "But how…"

"He'll have to tell you. I swore an oath on secrecy." I closed my eyes in a vain attempt to understand. Irene Adler was alive. Saved from execution by Sherlock Holmes, the man who had despised her in the end. Or had he? "Well," I finally managed to say. "I hope you thanked him properly."

"I did. Twice."

I closed my eyes again, feeling like crying and laughing at the same time. "He's kept your camera phone, you know."

"And I was led to believe that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side." She leaned back in her arm chair, being The Woman all over again. "Now, Dr Watson. May I ask what makes you seek out the Silhouette Club in plain daylight?"

"I'm on a case." Maybe talking about Anastasia Steele would silence the questions in my head. I handed her the photograph. "I have reason to believe that this young lady contacted the Silhouette Club… you, Miss Adler… in order to find out more about your line of work."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, she's been here. Four days ago. Had some questions about what we do, how we do it – _why_ we do it. But I sent her away."

"Why was that?"

"This wasn't the right place for her. She wanted to learn about my world because her boyfriend had told her a wild story about making her his slave while he was her Master. But from what she said I gathered that her boyfriend wasn't into recreational scolding at all. I'd say he's a man with serious psychological issues, and those cannot be healed by exerting the occasional whipping. I'd told her to get as far away from him as possible."

"Sherlock thinks he's a psychopath." And there was his name again, as well as the gleam in her eyes and the smile on her face. Suddenly I felt that I would not stand a single minute more in her company. "Well, anyway, thank you for your time, Miss Adler – sorry I have to go, I've got a flight to catch."

"I hope I haven't scared you away, Dr Watson. It's been such a pleasure to see you again."

"The pleasure is all mine. Just one last question – why were you expecting me? – No, don't tell me: You know the head of immigration at Seattle airport. You know what he likes, don't you?."

She joined me at the doorway. "Jealous, Dr Watson?"

"Of whom? The head of immigration? Hardly…"

"Give that to Sherlock from me." She placed a kiss on my cheek. "And tell him thank you for dinner."

If I'd been grateful for my first class seat on the outbound flight, there was no limit to my gratitude on the return. Kitted out with an eye mask, ear plugs, cushions, blankets and an unending supply of whiskey, I managed to spend most of the nine hours in a state that did not allow me to envision any pictures of Sherlock, Irene Adler and whatever had happened in Karachi. How could I not have noticed what was going on? Because he hadn't told me, had officially gone off to one of his top secret missions to save the world peace while in reality saving Irene Adler from a bunch of terrorists. Or, as he would put it: As always, John, you see but you don't observe.

Still, it was good to come back to 221B, good to be greeted by a peck on the cheek from Mrs Hudson, good to see him again. I had decided not to mention Irene Adler, at least not immediately, not until the case was finished. Having landed at noon, I found Sherlock clad in a dressing gown and lying on the sofa, hands folded with the fingertips touching like on a medieval tomb, lunch going cold on the table. "London or the West Country, what do you think?"

"I'll always go for London. Too many hellish hounds in the West, if you ask me. – Hello, Sherlock."

"Yes, but if you were a romantic – I mean, an American romantic with a broken heart, no experience outside the States, little self-confidence, a tiny IQ and a picture of England derived completely from watching Harry Potter movies and reading novels that are at least one hundred years old – where would you go?"

"This is about the case?" I said. "About Anastasia Steele?"

"Well, of course it is." Sherlock sat up.

"You think she went to England?"

"Where else would she go to? You've been to her room, you've seen it all. A bookshelf filled with any English classic you could think of. Pullovers and jeans gone from the wardrobe, but summer dresses still there. No passport, no suitcase."

"She could have gone to Canada," I suggested.

"To do what? Hunting bears?"

"Or to Karachi. Hunting terrorists."

It was this crucial moment that Mrs Hudson chose to present the new lodger from 221C. Announcing herself with a short knock, entering without expecting an answer and realizing immediately that everything was not well between Sherlock staring blank eyed at me and me staring blank eyed at Sherlock, she chirped: "Oh, you two having a little domestic? Never mind, I just want you to meet someone. – Don't be shy," she called back the corridor. "Do come in, dear. Meet Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Sherlock, John, meet our new neighbour, Rose Hardy."

"That's not her name," Sherlock said, and as always, he was absolutely right. The girl that was standing in front of us, biting her lip shyly and holding back a lot of curly hair from her face with one hand was no-one other than Anastasia Steele. "My name is Rose Hardy," she said, blushed, then took a look around. "Wow! Are you guys gay?"

"John, would you kindly inform Miss Steele that there are several people in her home country who – for reasons not quite obvious to me – are very much concerned about her safety and wish to get in contact with her." Sherlock lay down on the sofa and turned his back on us. The audience was over.

"You heard him say, Miss Steele," I said. "And for the record, I'm not actually gay."

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson purred. "We'll better go downstairs to sort this out."

"Yes, do go," Sherlock said to the wall. "The moment you leave the average IQ inside this room will increase remarkably."

We had just reached Mrs Hudson's kitchen when Miss Steele broke down into tears. "There, there, dear" Mrs Hudson comforted her. "Never mind Sherlock. He can be very nice at times. I'll make us a good hot cup of tea and tell you what he did when this awful gang of criminals kidnapped me…"

"They were American agents, Mrs Hudson," I reminded her.

"Were they? Well, they were nothing like the ones on the telly. Rude and violent and… sorry, you're American yourself, aren't you, Rosie?"

"Her name is not Rosie. Tell her your name, Miss Steele."

Miss Steele, blushing, desperately biting her lip and seeking some kind of shelter behind her hair, murmured: "But how do you know?"

"I've just come back from meeting your former boyfriend. He engaged the best consultant detective in the world – that is: Sherlock Holmes – in order to find you."

"Christian is looking for me?" This news made her emerge from behind her hair. "But does he know…"

"He has no idea where you are, and he won't find out unless you want to. He just wants to make sure that you are safe and well."

"I am well," she said and started crying. Mrs Hudson placed a cup of black tea in front of her and patted her shoulders. "Poor dear. You must have had quite a fright."

"And what an extraordinary coincidence that of all the flats in London you ended up here in Baker Street," I thought out loud.

"Oh, but that wasn't a coincidence." Miss Steele looked up from sipping her tea. "I was told to ask here at Mrs Hudson's."

"Told to? By whom?" But I already knew the answer.

"By a nice lady I met in Seattle. I talked to her about… about Christian's issues, and she recommended to get as far away from him as possible. She also said she'd know the perfect place for me to stay in London. That's how I got the address. – Do you think she's right? That Christian is a psychopath?"

"I think he's a man with serious problems, and I don't think you'd make a happy couple for too long." This was followed by some more lip-biting and sniveling into the tea pot. Mrs Hudson turned her "Don't be so hard" face on me. "Well, Miss Steele," I decided. "I'll leave you to the motherly care of Mrs Hudson. I've got a phone call to make."

It was the small hours of the morning in Seattle, but since Grey had asked me to be in touch anytime whenever we knew anything of Anastasia's whereabouts, I felt not too bad about interrupting his beauty sleep. His reply, when it finally came after many rings, was muffled and distracted. "I'm sorry for waking you up in the middle of the night, Mr Grey – it's John Watson."

"I wasn't sleeping – not at all."

"Right." I heard classical music playing in the background, some Bach or Haendel.

His concern about Anastasia seemed to have rendered him sleepless. I was glad to be able to relieve him from his worries. "It's just to let you know that we have located Miss Steele. She's alive and well, albeit not to happy, but under excellent care."

"Good. I'll send you a check."

"In case you're interested…"

"No, I'm not interested. Not at all."

"Err… Mr Grey?"

"Dr Watson?"

I found myself staring at the phone. "You made me fly half around the world because of her, and now you don't even ask where she is?"

"If you say so, I trust she's well." Now a female voice could be heard. He put down the phone, speaking softly to her, then returned to me. "Listen, Dr Watson. I appreciate the quick work of you and your partner…"

"He's not my partner, he's my…"

"… but I need to tell you that during the last day, my whole life has been turned upside down. I see things in a different light now, and I have come to realize that I never had a future with Anastasia."

While silently congratulating Grey on a very obvious discovery, I did wonder what had made him change his mind. Surely, eighteen hours where not sufficient for being brain-washed by some illicit sect?

"The thing is, Dr Watson, when you sent me off yesterday to manage my company network, all I did was drive once around the block. I found myself parking in front of Katherine's flat again, and I thought it was time that she and I made up for our differences."

"You and Miss Kavanagh?" I gulped.

"Katherine, yes. She's highly intelligent. Yes, we don't agree on anything concerning my relationship with Anastasia, but then again she looks through me and understands me in a way I have never been understood before. She made me face my desires as what they are, and she will support me in the steps I'll have to take in order to overcome them."

"Meaning that…."

"I'll go into therapy, Dr Watson. With Katherine by my side, I will lose those dark shades inside of me."

"Right," was all I could say, and even though I'm frequently described as the romantic type, I had never felt less romantic than in this moment. "Well, all the best then for you and Miss Kavanagh."

"We'll be honoured to see you and your partner for the wedding."

"He's not my… anyway, he cannot travel to the States. But thank you for the invitation. Can I just ask you one more question, Mr Grey? How did you find Sherlock Holmes for the task? Do you know his website? Or my blog?"

I could hear him chuckle on the other side of the world. "Frankly, I had never heard of you lot before. It was a lady friend who suggested I contact Sherlock Holmes. We share the same sort of… special interest, though she makes a living out of it."

"I know," I said and rang off. Suddenly, I felt tension and jetlag overcome me, and all I could think of was to go to bed and forget everything about the last forty-eight hours. But there was still one more question to be settled between Sherlock Holmes and me.

He was still on the sofa, positioned like an embryo, facing the wall. "Well," I said to his back. "And this is where your arrogance has brought us again. How quickly this one could have been solved if only you had listened the first time Mrs Hudson wanted to introduce her new lodger. Thanks to you, Mr Grey had time to discover that he is no longer interested in Miss Steele. But we are kindly invited to witness his wedding with her best friend. Unfortunately, I had to decline."

"You may go."

"And play Amor between you and Irene Adler? Forget about it. By the way, she says thank you for dinner." Which made him get up, walk across the table and grab his violin instead of an answer.

"Sherlock? Will you please tell me that you did not accept this case because you knew there was some remote chance I would stumble across her?"

"I leave you to your own deductions, John," he said, starting to play the sad tune he had composed after she had died for the first time.

"And how did you do it?"

"In Karachi? Oh, that was easy. I won't bore you with it. Go to bed, John, you look tired."

I will find out, I told myself. He loves to show off, and eventually, he will tell me - there was plenty of time ahead of us. Little did I know how soon Jim Moriarty would overturn our universe and destroy Sherlock Holmes – and therefore me – forever.

I was already at the door when I turned round once more, feeling that this one question could not wait to be answered until after I had slept. "Sherlock… what she said about dinner… that wasn't true, was it?"

A smile crept on his face, a big and beaming smile, the smile of a boy, not of a man: Sherlock Holmes's most beautiful smile. "Haven't I told you before, John?" he said. "Once you've ruled out the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."


End file.
